


Lullaby for an ice dragon

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon - Book, F/M, Family, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jon Snow is sick, and Arya sneaks in to see him. And meets an unexpected guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby for an ice dragon

**Author's Note:**

> The story assumes RLJ. Also, works on a little onesided bonding between Rhaegar and Jon.  
> Enjoy.

The castle is _finally_ quiet. 

Five year old Arya Stark listens carefully for any sort of human sound. She is delighted to find none, save Sansa's soft breathing. Mother and father had retired early. The baby in mother's stomach was restless, father said. She dimly heard him saying something about wolf blood. Mother laughed and her face lit up. Father didn't.

Maybe the baby can feel Jon, she thinks. Two rooms away, she knows that Robb is probably thinking the same. It seemed like a black cloud had descended over the heir of Winterfell. Understandable, really. Jon was ill, and mother wouldn't let them go see him. Robb and Theon had overheard Maester Luwin say that the crisis would come soon. Theon said that it meant that Jon might die. Arya had kicked him in the yard for saying that. Robb didn't stop her. 

She didn't believe the stupid kraken for a minute. Jon wouldn't die. He  _couldn't._ Besides, he was Jon. He would never leave her alone. Not even if mother forced him to. And mother couldn't do that. Arya would never forgive her if she did. Jon wasn't going to die. He'd be back up soon. Maybe they could find something for Bran's name day together. And, he'd tell her all the silly stories Uncle Benjen had told him about the wall. 

Jon Snow isn't going to die.

 _But what if he_ is?

The voice in her head was unfamiliar, but Arya thought she'd heard it before. 

Don't be silly. She told the voice. Jon won't die.

 _And how can you be sure, summer child?_ The voice sounded so sad. Arya supposed it was what Jon's mother would sound like. Maybe she was thinking of him tonight.

_How would you know?_

And Arya knows that she _doesn't._ Not really. 

Cold panic tugs at her heart as she shoots out of bed. Outside, she can hear the wind howling sadly. 

 _Come with us, come with us Jon Snow._ They seemed to say. It only made Arya run faster to the sick room at the top of North tower. It was a tiny place, cozy enough for an ill ten year old. Maester Luwin was probably there though. But he wouldn't grudge her a moment with Jon. Not with mother in her chambers.

She saw the dim light at the top of the stairs in the sick room. There was a soft footfall down the corridor. Arya held her breath, only to find that it was Maester Luwin, heading back to his chambers. Or to father's chambers. She couldn't help but feel a little angry at him for leaving Jon alone. On the other hand...

Arya sneaked up the tower steps, as quick and quiet as she could manage. The tower was cold. She hoped that Jon wasn't cold.

_Come with us, Jon Snow..._

She abandons all pretenses of quiet and runs up the stairs. They were coming for Jon, she knew they were! 

Arya knew that Robb, Bran and even maybe Sansa would want to say goodbye, but she didn't think there was time to go back. She paused for a breath outside Jon's door.

That's when she heard it. 

A soft, silvery sound, like moonlight dancing on a frozen lake. Or a wind in the godswood. It was coming from Jon's room.

But Jon was alone.

Arya pushed the door open and peeked in. She thought she felt her heart stop.

Jon Snow was not alone.

There was someone with him.

And that someone was plating a harp. A harp that sounded like silver. 

 

Arya took a moment to accustom her eyes to the dark. But the man shone, like an illusion.

He was lean and slender, like Jon, with an easy grace. His hair was silver.  _Like a Targaryen,_ Arya thought. His long fingers glided over the strings of a small harp, but he wasn't even looking at them. His eyes were focused on Jon, lying pale on the bed.

Petrified, Arya watched as he let go of the harp, trapping it between his legs, and without ceasing his playing, reach out his hand for her brother, still and white under the furs. 

 _Like a ghost._ And suddenly...

"NO!" She screamed, bursting into the room.

He stopped playing and looked up. 

Violet eyes. He had dark violet eyes. 

They spoke volumes. There was curiosity, Arya saw, and a sort of sorrow. And a longing in the way he looked at her.

But beneath it all there was a flash of rage.

She stared right back.

"You can't take him."

The anger shifts to the surface, and moves back down.

"Oh?"

Arya takes a step forward.

"He's my brother. I won't let you take him away."

The man raises an eyebrow, "Your brother? _Your brother? "_

He knows Jon is a bastard then. And he dares to imply it. At five, Arya is aware that her brother is not fully her own. That doesn't mean she won't take offence on his behalf.

"He's my brother and you can't take him from us."  She says, fiercely.

"Aye, and your mother treats him like her own, I suppose." He challenges.

Arya is silent for a moment. Who was he, this stranger who looked like a dragon prince from the story books?

How did he know all this?

"How..."

There's a ghost of a smile on his face. "What do you think I am?"

She's at a loss. 

"I thought you were a wight, come to take Jon from us. _Are you?"_ _  
_

He cracks a smile. "She would have thought that too. Lyanna..."

"You knew my Aunt?" He doesn't answer. He's not playing anymore. His hand is on Jon's forehead, brushing out dark locks from his forehead. They linger at his temple. There's love and grief infused in his look. Jon's face is calm. There's an unguarded smile on his face. Something rare. He seems to lean into the stranger's touch.

Arya moves towards the bed. The stranger does not look up at her. She sits on Jon's other side and takes his hand. 

"He loves you," the stranger says, softly. "More than the others."

A lump rises in her throat. "I love him too. More than the others."

He looks up at her and smiles. Suddenly, she realizes that she's more tired than she thought. She gets into bed, under the covers and curls around her brother.

The shade reaches out and pats her hair. "Take care of him, Arya Stark. And of yourself."

The last thing she remembers is him leaning over Jon to press a long and sorrowful kiss to his forehead.

_Look after our boy, Arya Stark._

 

Lord Eddard Stark moved to the room where his baseborn son, no, his nephew, slept. The crisis would come tonight, the Maester said. Either he would live, and be forever the bastard of Winterfell. Or he would die and join his parents.  _And I will have failed Lyanna. Again._

The maester was gone, but the boy had company.

"I wanted to take him with me, but your daughter thought it better if he stayed."

Rhaegar Targaryen's solemn voice filled the room. Ned saw his shade rise from his vigil, by the bed. 

Sure enough, Arya had snuck in with Jon, and was holding him, like she would never let go.

Ned smiled.

"She's a wolfling. Like Lyanna."

Rhaegar's eyes cloud up in sorrow. 

"You will not forgive me, I know. But I loved her."

"It will not bring her back. Or you. "

"I was foolish. And irresponsible."

Ned is quiet.

"You were." He replies. "And the seven kingdoms bled for your folly. The north above all."

He takes in the man who fathered the boy who called him father. Who would never know that he was but a bastard. Never a dragon. A bastard wolf.

Rhaegar looks as mournful as ever. 

"I must leave." He says, giving one last look of longing at the child on the bed.

"You must."

"I wish it could have been different."

"As do I."

The shade begins to fade, and Jon Snow shifts in his sleep. 

"Thank you, Eddard Stark." The voice is but a whisper.

_Thank you dearest Ned..._

Ned shivers. He had not heard that dear voice in ten years.

 

Jon Snow's fever is broken.


End file.
